


Round

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual John, Bisexual Mary, Blow Jobs, F/M, First Time, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Size Kink, Threesome - F/M/M, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Trust me,” Mary whispers, and in a louder voice: “Come in, Sherlock.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Round

**Author's Note:**

> I had finished almost the entire fic before Last Vow, and it blessedly did not completely de-canon the whole damn thing. Even more blessedly, it dropped about fifty plot ideas for future Johnlockary (which sounds like some type of shenanigans one could get up to), so look for more.

She first sees the possibility in John the moment he looks up and recognizes their waiter. Three restaurants later, it’s still there. 

“I’ll talk him round,” she tells Sherlock with a secretive smile.

She sees it in Sherlock when they pull John from a bonfire. While John is being made to breathe through an oxygen mask, Mary peels the burnt gloves from Sherlock’s hands. He hisses through his teeth.

“Not too bad,” she says. She waves an EMT over and gets some ointment, bandages and a pair of cold compresses.

He watches her in glittery-eyed silence until she’s taped off the second bandage. Then he cocks his head at an angle and says, “You’re quite good.”

Mary smiles. “Why the tone of surprise?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Have you _met_ John’s friends?”

“I have now,” she says mildly. “And I’m beginning to realize I’m not the anomaly I thought.”

He looks her over and something clicks behind his eyes, tumblers falling into place. He looks so deeply that she’s almost afraid. In fact, she’s just afraid enough to make her pulse accelerate and her spine to tingle, and that is when she sees it in herself.

“I’ll talk him round,” she says again, more meaningfully.

Sherlock frowns, and then realizes. For a moment, the layers strip away from his face, baring the blatant emotion beneath. It takes Mary’s breath away.

Then he’s pressing the cold compresses into her hands, standing and straightening his coat. “Do,” he says, and sweeps away.

———

They’re in bed together one night after some lovely sex when the topic of Sherlock Holmes comes up.

“So you’ve _never,”_ Mary says, incredulous.

“No.”

“Not even in the army?”

“Nope.”

“Alas and alack, all the porn is lies.” She falls back dramatically onto the bed, then sits back up. “So, really, not once, ever, in your entire life, has a dick entered your mouth?”

John sighs theatrically. “Nope. Not once, not interested.”

Should she? Well, it’s as good a place as any.  “Not even you and Sherlock...”

John shakes his head and scoffs with the long-suffering air of a man who’s told the same thing to too many strangers.

Mary, though, is no stranger.

She curls a hand over his shoulder. “What stopped you?”

And there’s the little flicker, the sure sign she’s onto something.

“I’m not gay,” John says.

_There’s a loophole there, my love._ “Never said you were,” she says. “There’s more than two options. I’m not gay, but I’ve had near as many women as you. So you _know_ there’s other options.”

He stiffens. Caught.

“So, I’ll ask again. What stopped you?”

John sort of—sinks. The pretense sloughs away and leaves loss and missed opportunities. He looks up at the ceiling, shuts his eyes, and opens them again.

“There was never time,” he says. The words weigh heavy in the air, years of regret and suppression. “Or the _right_ time. And then—”

Mary nods, wincing in sympathy.

“But—yeah, I thought about it.” He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I wouldn’t—now, obviously, there’s—I just wanted you to know.”

Mary kisses his nose. He wrinkles it and smooches her back. “Dearheart,” Mary says, “I know.”

John smiles. “Thanks.”

“Now brush your teeth.” She reaches around and pinches his bottom. He grins, winks and hops out of bed.

As soon as the door has shut behind him, Mary takes out her phone and types out a text.

_I do believe we’re in._

———

In the end, setting it up is simple.

It all comes down to _telling_ Sherlock to come over for dinner at one time and _indicating_ an hour later, while playing entirely dumb with John: “no, he’s probably not coming, we might as well.”

(He’s already there, kneeling outside with his ear to the door.)

They only get as far as the couch. Mary gets her dress off and goes for John’s shirt and trousers. She leaves her bra and knickers for him.

“Good evening,” John growls into her cleavage. Mary’s giggle peters out into a pleased noise as John mouths along the exposed swell of breast spilling out over her cup.

She falls backwards onto the couch and pulls him down on top of her. She gets his prick against her wet slit and lets out a long, satisfied sigh. They’ve still got all their pants on, and Sherlock is listening at the door, and Mary feels hot and shivery and faint.

She hooks a leg round John’s waist and pulls him in. “He’s going to knock,” she whispers.

John frowns. “Who—” he says, just as Sherlock knocks.

John sits up and starts scrambling for clothes. “Shit, shit, buggering fucking—”

Mary catches him, pushes him back down, straddles his waist and pins him by the shoulders. He doesn’t struggle, merely regards her with the dawning light of someone coming to a realization.

“Trust me,” Mary whispers, and in a louder voice: “Come in, Sherlock.”

He does.

For a moment he’s caught staring, eyes flicking over the pair of them, undoubtedly verifying the deductions he’d made at the keyhole. Then he meets first John’s eyes, then Mary’s, and looks away.

Mary smiles. “Would you lock the door, Sherlock?”

Sherlock does.

“And take off your coat.”

He’s still not looking at them, she realizes, with no little amusement. “Is that all?” he says.

_Testy._ “For now.”

John’s mouth unsticks. “Sherlock—” he says hoarsely.

Mary bends and kisses him. “Let me,” she murmurs. They’re so fragile right now, so easily broken, and if she leaves this in the hands of either of her clumsy boy-children it’ll go tits-up in no time.

Mary nods to the chair. “Sit down, Sherlock. You’ll be more comfortable.” _Much more comfortable,_ she thinks, eyes passing over the crotch of his trousers. How long was he at the door?

Sherlock is trying very hard to look clinically interested and not nervous, but he’s fidgeting. He scowls at Mary. “Do you expect me to—”

“Just watch for now,” Mary says. “Watch John.” She smiles at John, who smiles back, deep and sincere and trusting, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes wrinkling in agreement. “John. Watch Sherlock watching you.”

They won’t be able to all the time, she knows. John will look everywhere but Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock won’t be able to look away.

“What are you looking at?” John says with a grin.

“My collection of lovely boys,” Mary says, and unhooks her bra.

She’s pretty sure she’s not imagining the stereo inhalation as she tosses it aside and gives the girls a rub. John’s hands settle on her waist. She takes them and leads them higher. John rolls them in his hands, squeezing, savoring. He grins at her, all heavy-lidded adolescent glee. She smiles back and nods towards Sherlock.

Sherlock has leaned forward in his seat, elbows on knees, fingers steepled. There’s a flush across his cheekbones and his eyes are fixed on John’s.

“Watch him,” Mary says, and moves her hips.

John’s eyes flutter shut, then open again. His breathing goes strained and raspy. She rubs down his erection and back up, matching her breathing to her pace. They don’t make much noise at this point; they’re only coasting. Still, Mary lets herself enjoy the slow back and forth of sensation and the gentle throbbing pull of pleasure in her guts.

John isn’t looking at Sherlock. He’s not looking anywhere, so Mary takes him by the chin and turns his head to the side, a gentle reminder. He opens his eyes and gasps.

“Watch him,” Mary murmurs.

John blinks slowly, but doesn’t look away. Mary looks too.

Sherlock has one hand balled up in front of his face. He looks inches from actually biting his thumb. His other is clamped round his thigh, knuckles white with effort. _Oh God, he’s trying not to—_

Mary’s clit throbs. She gasps, and John makes a strangled sound. Sherlock echoes it. His hand moves convulsively up his thigh.

“Oh God,” John chokes out. “Do it, please, I want to see—”

Sherlock jerks his zip down and yanks his trousers and pants down to his knees in one go, and rational thought takes a flying leap out the window.

Mary rests back on her heels for a moment to stare. “Fuck.”

“What, is that all yours?” John asks, agog.

Sherlock circles his shaft with his hand (fingers meet, but only just, and _shit_ but aren’t they _long_ fingers) and glares reproachfully. “Why are you _stopping_ , don’t--”  

Mary smiles. “I think we could remove to the bedroom, don’t you?”

John grins and pecks her on the lips. “Budge up. Let’s see if His Highness can get down the hall with his pants round his ankles.”

“No,” Sherlock says, kicking a pile of shoes and socks and trousers aside.

She climbs off the couch, takes John’s hand, and hauls him up. Passing Sherlock, she catches his too, and leads them to the bedroom. She bounces back onto the bed and settles in. Sherlock reaches to unbutton his shirt.

“Wait,” she says. Sherlock halts, eyebrows pulling together in irritation. Mary winks. “John. Why don’t you relieve those buttons?”

John isn’t meeting Sherlock’s eyes, but he’s definitely looking over the rest of him. Mary remembers that look from the first time she took him to bed—something between worship and reconnaissance. It makes her mouth water.

When John undoes the button at Sherlock’s throat, Sherlock brings his chin up, nostrils flaring. His hands flex at his sides.

_Oh, bless, he doesn’t know what to do with them._ “Sherlock, dear, put your hands on John’s waist.”

He does so with a sense of relief. John slips the last button free and smiles. His eyes flick up to Sherlock’s, back down, and back up again. Sherlock’s wet, beestung lips part. John pushes Sherlock’s shirt open and gets his hands around him, rubbing up and down his ribs and waist and hips like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Sherlock is watching John with naked abandon, as if he’s just realized he’s allowed. John can’t look away from the rest of him, from Sherlock’s miles of lovely pale skin and that long, thick, flushed cock. He curves his fingertips into the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock tips his head back and lowers his eyelids.

“Wanted to do that,” John mumbles. “You cover your neck with that damn scarf so much it’s like—its own fucking—sex…object…”

His voice weakens and tapers out. Sherlock lowers his head. Their eyes meet.

Mary tells them nothing. This part, they manage naturally.

Sherlock takes John’s face in his hands and pulls him in. John melts into the kiss immediately, eyes sliding shut and head tilting back to compensate for the height difference. It’s like nothing Mary’s ever seen. Just watching makes her stomach twist and her heart ache and her thighs clench. It’s passionate, yes, and definitely lustful, but it’s also tragic. They grab at each other, nothing specific, just clinging to whatever handfuls they can hold and trying to drag them closer. Sherlock half-breaks away to gasp in a breath, and John whines and tugs him back in.

When they come apart to pant for air, foreheads resting against each other, Mary has a hand to her mouth and a lump in her throat.

“That was...beautiful,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

John nods, but they’re still not looking away from each other, still ensnared in their private trap.

Sherlock’s mouth is starting to pull into a grimace. “John, I am sorry—”

John shakes his head. “No, don’t start. I’ve got my share of—”

“You’ve done this bit,” Mary says. “Remember? Train car. You can only say it so many times. Come on, my silly boys, if you can’t remember you love each other from day to day I don’t know how you ever got by without me.” She smiles and holds out her hands. “Come to bed.”

John crawls over right off; she’s got him trained. Sherlock sheds his shirt, then follows.

They spend time exploring, feeling each other out in the silence. There’s a long, lovely spell when all three of them aren’t talking or doing much of anything, just lying against each other and enjoying the warmth and comfort and leisure.

Naturally, Sherlock ruins it.

He clears his throat. “Um.”

John cracks open an eye. “Yes.”

“Not that I want to—impede the progress of this encounter, which I am entirely absorbed in, but I think it might be relevant to—“

“You’ve no idea what to do,” Mary finishes.

Sherlock blushes, and oh, but isn’t that cute.

“I _would_ like to participate to the best of my—erm, potential, but given my relative lack of experience—“

“All right, Sherlock, we get the idea,” Mary says. “Don’t worry, we’ve got you.” She raises her eyebrows at John. “John? Suggestions?”

John looks back and forth between them, then nods, decisive.

“Right,” he says. “Mary, give Sherlock an education.”

Mary’s face lights up. “Yes, sir.” After all, Sherlock is a far better mimic than a student.

Sherlock colors pink. “Really, John, I don’t think that’s an entirely accurate method of—”

Mary shuts him up by kissing him.

He’s too gobsmacked to reciprocate for a second, which is flattering. But once he gets his feet beneath him—hoo, boy. Mary makes a satisfied little coo, pins him down to the bed and lets him go at it.

“I can see the appeal,” she says to John, when she’s well and truly snogged.

John snickers. Sherlock smirks. She’ll soon see to _that_.

“Now, I’m sure you know the real basics,” Mary says, “so I shan’t bore you. So for now—blowjobs.”

Sherlock pales a little.

“It mostly comes naturally, I swear, but I dreaded it for _ages_. Was very worried about teeth.”

“Have to say I’m glad you learned,” John says.

Mary sticks her tongue out at John. “Right. So, lie back, you can put hands on head but don’t buck up, yeah? And give us a heads-up before you come.”

Sherlock nods. His eyes are wide and bewildered.

“Knees up and spread ‘em.”

He obeys. Mary kneels between his feet. John lies down beside Sherlock and strokes his thumb down his cheek. Sherlock’s mouth forms John’s name, but his voice cracks into silence.

John smiles. “Sherlock.”

Mary wraps a hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock to steady it. Sherlock’s nostrils flare, but he is otherwise still. John passes his tongue over his lower lip.

“God, I want that in me,” he declares fervently.

Mary raises her eyebrows. “Darling, I really don’t think we’ve sufficient time to prepare, if you catch me.”

Sherlock smirks. “What your wife is trying to say, John,” he says, “is that I’d injure you.”

“Don’t care. Saw it. Liked it. Want it.”

Mary laughs. “How about this: some day we’re all a sight more patient, you have me while he brings up the rear?”

She swears she can see Sherlock’s eyes dilate. John bites his lip.

“Sounds good to me,” he says. He scruffs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You?”

Sherlock nods.

“For now, though,” Mary says, “teaching you how to suck a man til he cries.”

She lowers her head and guides Sherlock’s cock into the circle of her open mouth.

For all her talk about fearing the blowjob, Mary has to admit she gets a certain enjoyment from it. It’s such a little thing, your mouth, and yet you can do so much to someone with it. She swirls her tongue around the tip and sucks lightly. Sherlock makes a high, shocked noise that is quickly snuffed out. Mary glances up. Sherlock is kissing her husband again, clutching the back of his head and moaning into his mouth. Something warm and heavy settles in the pit of her stomach. She bends back to her task.

Sherlock is wonderfully responsive. She can feel him trembling beneath her, trying to follow directions and keep his hips against the bed. John feels it too. He combs his fingers up into Sherlock’s hair.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs. “Jesus, you’re beautiful.”

A shudder ripples through Sherlock’s body, and he cries out and clutches at the back of John’s neck. Mary shuts her eyes and squeezes her thighs together. Heat washes down her spine and ripples through her clit.

“Do you want to come this way?” John asks, gravelly and fucking _filthy_. “Down her throat? She takes it all.”

There’s a slight movement. John snaps his fingers at Mary. She pulls off and accentuates the pop.

“How, then?”

Sherlock whispers something. He’s clutching at the back of John’s head like it’ll pull him to the surface. John looks calm, even though Mary knows from the flush down his chest he’s practically too turned on too stand.

“Yeah. We can do that.” He nods to Mary. “Hop up, darling.”

John rolls off the bed and goes to dig around in the dresser. Mary crawls up and tucks herself against Sherlock. He’s less tense and starting to look less overwhelmed, but without John he seems…thrown. He rubs one hand over his face and clenches the other against his breastbone.

Mary takes his wrists. “Here,” she says gently, and guides one to her waist and the other against her breast.

Sherlock breathes out. He blinks slowly. Mary wraps a leg over his thighs and pulls him over onto his side, so he’s fully facing her. He presses his thumb to her nipple and she sighs.

“Interesting,” he says through narrow, glittering eyes. Mary giggles.

“Don’t you two get ahead of me now,” John warns, climbing back onto the bed with lube in hand.

Sherlock twists his head around, but Mary stops him with a hand on his chin. “Look at me,” she says.

He does. He’s _studying_ her, she realizes, and he keeps looking as John stripes lube into his palm and slides a slick finger between Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Keep relaxed,” he says. “And tell us what you need.”

Sherlock nods. Then his eyelids flutter shut with a gasp and Mary knows John has worked a fingertip inside. She can’t resist a kiss, just one, quick and sweet and comforting. “Okay?”

Sherlock swallows stickily. “Yes,” he whispers. “Keep going.”

He pants out hot breaths against Mary’s lips while she strokes up and down his sides and murmuring soothing platitudes. She can feel his cock twitch against her thigh. With a thrill of excitement, she realizes she’s going to have that monster _in_ her in a minute. Her clit aches. If she could _just_ —

“Sherlock,” she whispers. “Up for a bit of a job?”

He opens his eyes a sliver. She takes that as a yes.

“Fantastic.”

She brings her leg up, lifts his hand from her waist and guides it between her thighs. Behind him, she hears John groan.

“Oh, fuck, _Mary.”_

She isn’t paying attention. She’s coaxing Sherlock’s fingers into curling up and against her. He gets the gist, picks up a slow rhythm, back and forth along her. Mary drifts, lets herself float.

Then he jerks and lets out a shocked cry. Mary blinks and refocuses. Sherlock’s eyes have gone wide and the flush on his cheeks has flared pink.

“Got you,” John says softly. “Was that okay?”

“God, yes, John, don’t stop,” Sherlock says all in a rush.

“Fuck yeah,” Mary says, shutting her eyes and pressing Sherlock’s hand into her.

He resumes his pace, now punctuated with ragged gasps. Once, he presses her clit when he twitches. Mary’s hips jerk towards him and she moans. He comes back into himself enough to look interested, and does it again, a moment before John does something that makes Sherlock go trembling and panting and clutching at Mary for support.

“About finished back there, luv?” says Mary.

“Better be,” says Sherlock.

“Fuck,” says John.

He sits back on his heels. Sherlock whines. Mary kisses it away and throws her leg back over his.

“Come on,” she says. “Time to get situated.”

“What do you think?” says John. “You first?”

Mary’s cheeks flush. “How generous.”

“Not at all,” says John.

John reaches around Sherlock’s hip, between Sherlock’s and Mary’s bodies, and grasps the base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s breath rushes out.

“Got him for you,” he says.

Sherlock’s eye cracks open. He looks slightly reproachful at being treated as a sex toy, but only just. Mary kisses the tip of his nose. “Hold still, sweetheart.”

It takes a little maneuvering, but between the three of them they manage. Mary bites her lip to smother the pleading noise she makes as Sherlock’s cock slides into her cunt. She can’t take it all, but she can take enough.

Sherlock tries to hide his face in the crook of Mary’s shoulder. She turns his head and kisses him.

“Tell us if we’re going too fast.”

Sherlock nods without opening his eyes. Then Mary _does_ let him hide his face in her shoulder, because John is spreading Sherlock's arse open and easing his cock in inch by inch.

Mary’s eyelids flutter shut. “Oh, God, John, I can feel you through him.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut _up,”_ he says tersely. “Just—give me a minute.”

Sherlock clutches at Mary. She presses kisses into his hair and smooths her hands down his sides. “Okay?”

“Yes,” he croaks. “God, yes.”

Mary reaches down to touch John’s hand, braced against Sherlock’s hip. “John.”

“Yeah,” he pants.

Mary swallows. Need burns slow in her stomach. “Then you might—“

“Yeah,” John says, and moves.

Sherlock claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the long moan that is dragged out of him. Mary squeezes his side and pushes back.

John’s lips fall open. “Oh Jesus, I can feel that.”

John is setting a slow pace. Mary wants fast and hard. Sherlock sounds as if it’s already too much. John is deep and thorough, making Sherlock moan and Mary whimper _"John."_

“If you could not, that’d be lovely,” he grinds out. “It’s a bit —ah —tricky back here.”

But he does pick it up a little. The current runs through them in a cycle, John-Sherlock-Mary-Sherlock-John and back again. Sherlock is going to pieces. He’s trapped between them, driven forward into tight, wet heat and back into obliterating fullness. He keens, tosses his head and cries out with raw abandon. Mary reaches down between their churning bodies bodies and gets her fingers onto her clit. All it takes is a few good rubs before she’s clenching down hard and coming in quick, deep spasms as her boys fuck her through it.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock groans in a voice so deep it makes Mary shudder with an aftershock. _“John—”_

“Fuck, did she—oh, _fuck_. _”_

Mary extracts her hand, traps Sherlock’s nipple between her still-damp fingers, and tugs hard. It’s all he needs. He comes nearly silently, frozen in a long, shuddering gasp that trembles in his chest as his hips jerk and his cock pulses inside of Mary. John buries his face in Sherlock’s hair and snaps his hips over and over.

“Fuck, Sherlock, Mary, _fuck—”_

Mary feels John’s orgasm differently, like a growing bubble of tension that bursts and dissipates. When he finally settles, it feels like absolution.

There’s a bit of wiggling as everybody gets their parts back, but they eventually settle into a comfortable sort of pile. Sherlock falls onto his back. Mary rolls over onto her stomach and throws an arm over Sherlock’s chest. John stays on his side, lays his arm across Sherlock’s stomach and rests his hand on Mary’s.

He moves to roll over and out of bed. Sherlock catches him.

“No.”

“These sheets,” says John, “are—”

“Acceptable.”

“Yeah,” says Mary. “And I want a cuddle.”

John sighs, but acquiesces. “Christ, what was I thinking, getting you two together.”

“Oy! I’ll have you know we are perfectly capable of getting ourselves together on our lonesome.”

“Mm, I know,” says John, voice laden with double entendre.

A long, skinny arm settles over each of them. “Sleep,” Sherlock rumbles.

Mary catches John’s eye over Sherlock’s curly hair and smiles. “Good night, Mr. Watson. Love you.”

“Good night, Mrs. Watson. Love you.”

Mary nuzzles at Sherlock’s hair. “And you too.”

John says nothing. But just before she slips into sleep, she hears him whisper something. She’d thought Sherlock asleep, but then he turns his head.

“Yes. Pretend I said it too.”

John’s quiet, fond laughter follows Mary into her dreams.


End file.
